


Confirmation Bias

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Memories, Control Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Kissing, John "Three Continents" Watson, John Watson's Father is Abusive, M/M, Military Kink, PTSD John, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:57:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Confirmation bias is the tendency to search for, interpret, favour, and recall information in a way that confirms one's preexisting beliefs or hypotheses."Three Continents Watson" is an embarrassing nickname, but John's not about to correct the assumptions. Admitting the truth would be far worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you probably saw from the tags, there's a fair bit of John's backstory here, and it ain't pretty. It's not graphic and there are no POV flashbacks, but if mention of child abuse and generally quite-not-good growing-up stories isn't right for you, you might want to skip this one. <3

The flush of success was still rolling through Sherlock when he turned to speak to John, to share the exhilaration of this moment, only to find John was not there. Frowning, Sherlock scanned the scene, seeing nothing. He strode back the way they had come, ignoring Lestrade as he shouted, focussing only on the beat of his heart as it asked ‘ _where’s John, where’s John’_ over and over again. It was around two corners that Sherlock found John, wincing as he propped himself against a wall, one hand clutching his ribs.

“John?” Sherlock asked, approaching his friend at a run, the warmth of success turning cold as he saw the pale, drawn expression. John was in pain. “What is it?” barked Sherlock.

“Ribs,” replied John. “Not broken, probably bruised.”

“Back to Baker Street then,” decided Sherlock, helping John stand so they could move slowly to the end of the street where a cab was more likely. He ignored the buzzing of his phone – probably Lestrade again – and concentrated on getting John into a cab without jarring more than necessary.

+++

Once safely in the cab, Sherlock shot a quick text off to the irritated DI, mainly to prevent officers arresting him so he would make a statement. _John injured. Statement tomorrow. – SH_ was short but even the DI could make sense of it, Sherlock thought as he eyed John without moving his head. There was little point making small talk, so they rode in silence. Sherlock paid the cabbie and opened the door while John navigated the short distance. He was moving better now, though his breathing was measured and he was still wincing on every other step.

“I’ll get the kit,” said Sherlock when they finally stepped into their flat. He’d opened it out onto the coffee table, surveying the contents before John had walked the few steps over.

“I need help with my jacket,” said John, the admission clearly annoying him. Sherlock helped pull the sleeves down, releasing John’s arm without pulling too hard on his sore ribs. “Thanks,” said John. He sat carefully on the edge of the couch, pointing to a few things. “Arnica, that cold pack. No, not ibuprofen yet, new studies show it can affect healing times if taken too soon. I’ll take some tomorrow.” Sherlock passed the cream and cold pack over. John unbuttoned his shirt, wincing as he once again realised he couldn’t take it off without help. He stood up and Sherlock moved behind him, waiting until the cuff buttons were loose before carefully sliding the fabric down John’s arms. Once the garment was free, John reached for the arnica, but Sherlock was frozen, staring at John’s back.

“Wha…” John started to say, then swore under his breath as he realised what Sherlock was seeing. “Just ignore it, Sherlock. It was a long time ago.” He resumed opening the homeopathic cream, and Sherlock shook himself, moving around to drape John’s shirt over the couch.

“I know scars, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, and he didn’t look at John. For his part, John didn’t stop carefully spreading the arnica over his ribs.

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock,” John’s voice was insistent. “I think my ribs are okay, actually. Looks like just a big bruise, nothing underlying.”

“They’re old scars, John. Healed but…” Sherlock trailed off. When John didn’t speak, Sherlock stood without another word and retreated to his bedroom. Sherlock had been gone long enough that John was about to make his own way to bed, when the detective returned, striding in and blurting, “Of course it matters, John. Someone stubbed cigarettes out on your back over a long period of time, then ensured they healed properly. What kind of psychopath does that?” His eyes were cold, voice oddly close to hysteria.

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock,” repeated John. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock felt the energy drain out of him.

“It matters to me, John.”

John blinked. “Why?” he asked.

“Why do you matter?” Sherlock asked, puzzled.

“No, why does this matter?” John indicated his back and the scars. “It was a long time ago. It’s over. Why does it matter to you now?”

Sherlock sat down on the coffee table, shifting things from the medical kit out of the way. He was close to John, now, knees knocking, almost nose to nose. “You matter to me. There’s no way anyone could endure that kind of systematic abuse and not be affected by it.”

“So I’m a puzzle to be solved, is that it?” John’s voice was calm in a way that Sherlock knew meant he was angry.

“No,” replied Sherlock, voice equally calm without the warning edge. “You’re John, and you matter, and you’ve always mattered. And understanding this,” his hand waved towards John’s back, “will help me understand you.”

John was avoiding his gaze again, looking down at the tube of arnica cream rolling in his hands. “How do I matter, Sherlock?” he gave a mirthless laugh. “Because I used to think…but now I know I can’t matter like that, not to anyone. Not to anyone that knows about this, anyway.” The hand that waved towards his back this time conveyed hopelessness. Sherlock frowned. “Can’t matter like what, John?”

John sighed. “It was bad enough when I was the limping Army vet with a bad shoulder. Who’d want him? Now, I’m the Army vet with the bad shoulder and the abusive past. And the scars to prove it.”

“I did.” Sherlock spoke without thinking, though he didn’t need to consider his words for this exchange.

“What?” John asked.

“I wanted him. The limping Army vet with the bad shoulder. I asked you to move in with me, if you recall.”

The look John gave him was sad and hopeless and sympathetic. “Oh, Sherlock. That’s not what you meant.”

“No, John, that’s exactly what I meant. But you never understood.”

Before John could ask once again what Sherlock was talking about, the detective leaned forward, pressing his mouth gently to John’s. It was a chaste kiss, just warm lips pressing together, but Sherlock felt it down to his toes.

“What the hell was that?” John whispered, frozen. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the dazed expression on John’s face.

“A kiss,” said Sherlock, his relief palpable – at finally kissing John and not having him run screaming (so far). “Surely you’ve been kissed before.”

John looked supremely uncomfortable. “Well, yeah, of course,” he said. Sherlock frowned. Something was off. John wasn’t lying, exactly, but there was something…

“So you see, limp or not, scars or not, I still want you.” Sherlock whispered. John still sat in the same position, unmoving.

“Are you alright, John?” Perhaps John wasn’t okay with being kissed. Or he was, but the shock was still wearing off. Sherlock waited to see which way John would react.

“I’m…I’m okay.” John said finally. “Just a shock, I guess.” He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s and smiled. His eyes were still guarded though – there was something else still on his mind. Sherlock made a mental note to consider that at a later moment.

“So, is it okay if we…” Sherlock wasn’t sure of the right terminology, so he left the end of the sentence hanging.

“Oh. Um. Well, yes. Although,” John rushed on after his initial hesitation, “I’m um, I haven’t, so…”

“Can I assume you’re trying to say you’ve never dated a man and would rather we don’t skip to shagging right this minute?” Sherlock asked, amused at John’s reticence. He was usually the first to joke about sex, about his lack thereof because of his flatmate, about the amount of masturbation that must happen in a flat with two single men in it…

“Something like that,” replied John, his smile weak.

“Of course.” Sherlock said. “For now you should rest. Here, take an ice pack or two.” He passed the single use packs to John, then offered an elbow, which John used to lever himself off the couch.

“Ta,” John said. His body language screamed ‘awkward’, so Sherlock smiled and bade him goodnight without the threat of a kiss. There would be plenty of time for that.

+++

The next morning, Sherlock waited anxiously for John to come downstairs. Having kissed John yesterday, he wasn’t sure of the new dynamic. Was he allowed upstairs now? Or should he wait for John to arrive in his own time? Taking the safe option, Sherlock waited. He plucked at the strings of his violin, finally bursting up out of his seat when John walked gingerly into the room.

“Good morning,” said John, seeing Sherlock sitting in his chair.

“How are your ribs?” Sherlock asked.

John winced. “Sore.”

“Not broken?”

“No. Not even bruised that badly, really.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. He watched John shuffle into the kitchen, the familiar sounds of tea being made making Sherlock smile. Nothing would stop John making tea, he thought.

When John returned, two mugs in his hands, he looked apprehensive, Sherlock saw. Once he’d passed Sherlock one of the mugs and settled himself in his chair, John’s expression changed – from apprehensive to determined.

“Sherlock,” he began, “we need to talk.”

Of course we do, Sherlock thought. “Okay,” he said aloud.

“Those…it was my father.” John was staring determinedly into his tea. “He drank. A lot.” When he didn’t continue, Sherlock asked tentatively, “What about your mother?”

“She was the carer. She made sure they healed. Not one psychopath. A mean drunk and his battered wife,” John said bitterly.

“That’s not what we need to talk about though.” John sighed. “All this happened when I was a kid. Before I…before girls. And boys,” he smiled wryly. “You’re the first…I don’t…” he took a deep breath. “People don’t see my back. Nobody. So it made it hard to…I mean…I haven’t…” with a growl of frustration, John put his mug down and ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m a virgin, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked hard. “What?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John explains his past here - please read the tags for TWs. There's a summary of important points in the notes at the end if you'd rather skip this chapter. <3

John’s face was flaming, his expression blank. He’d sat back in his seat, hands dropped to his lap. Sherlock was surprised at him – he’d have expected John to put on a front, be the soldier. Yet here he was, shoulders hunched in, the very image of defensive posture. Sherlock knew John was able to hide his emotion better than this – he’d been doing it since they met. Curious, he watched closely, wondering if the reason for John’s sudden vulnerability would make itself evident as John spoke.

“People make assumptions. They see me being nice to women, and it’s flirting. They see me flirting, I must be trying to get them into bed. If I’m good at the flirting I must be good at the rest.” He shifted uncomfortably, eyes still on his hands. “Flirting’s easy, it’s just being nice, and sincere, really. But…” he trailed off, brow furrowing, teeth worrying his lower lip as he fought off the emotion. Sherlock sat completely still. He had no idea how to deal with this. The conversation he’d imagined they would have today was more along the lines of ‘I’ve never been with a man so bear with me while I have an identity crisis’. This…this was something he had certainly not deduced.

“You’ve hidden it for a long time.” Sherlock said quietly. John nodded, mouth twisting into an approximation of a wry smile. “But…you’re telling me now.” Sherlock wasn’t looking for confirmation – the knowledge had come to him, the explanation for John’s lack of façade. He no longer needed to hide, to pretend. Sherlock was his only audience, and he was going to tell Sherlock the things he’d kept hidden. As he looked at John, Sherlock thought he detected a weariness in the slump of the shoulders, the slightly slower blink of his eyes. Perhaps that was it too – keeping your walls up was exhausting, and it looked as though John was using all his energy just to speak to Sherlock. He’d given a slight nod, acknowledging Sherlock’s comment, and now he took a deep breath, continuing his story.

“When I was in high school, I was always the shortest. Kids picked on me for that, but it didn’t matter because they didn’t see past it. I was invisible, unremarkable except for my height. Nobody saw that I sat up straight so my back didn’t press against the chair, or that sometimes I couldn’t sit down through break-time because he’d beaten me with his belt. My father was…clever. Drunk and mean, but clever. He never hit us where it would show. Cigarettes were his favourite. I learned pretty quickly not to move when he called me over. They healed faster if he didn’t press too hard.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Your mother tried to help you.”

“She would bring me antiseptic cream, make sure I wasn’t picking at the scabs. Not that I could reach them. I still sleep on my stomach.”

“Your father didn’t object?” Sherlock found the words falling from his mouth unbidden, the roar of rage still blocking out most of the coherent thoughts in his mind.

“As long as we were quiet and he got what he wanted, he didn’t care.”

Sherlock nodded, taking in the information, pushing away the rage, fighting for logical thought. He’d noticed John’s use of the past tense for his father, but didn’t ask; that would come later, if John wanted it to. He found himself wanting to protect John, an odd instinct that trumped even his desire for answers.

“When I turned fifteen I was big enough to fight back.” John said. “I didn’t even have to, in the end. I told him if he touched me again he’d regret it.” The ghost of a smile crossed his face at the memory before dropping away. “He looked at me, and I didn’t look away, and he never touched me again.”

Sherlock watched John swallow hard, flexing his hand as he always did when he was stressed. The old tics were returning. Sherlock was sure John would limp if he had to walk anywhere right now.

“I knew I had to get out of that town. I worked and studied, kept my head down, did nothing else until I finished school. That last week before we broke up, a bloke from the Army came to my school to talk about scholarships. A lot of guys joined up as soldiers, but one of my teachers told me they trained doctors too.” John shrugged. “I wanted to be more than a soldier. I wanted to help people.” He paused for a long time, before continuing. “At high school, it wasn’t a big deal if you hadn’t…been with many girls. People. But I knew it would be different at university. There would be assumptions about my experience. I couldn’t even stand anyone to touch my back, let alone see it or know what had happened. I was determined to go, though. I knew a lot about hiding things, about fitting in, being invisible. I knew it would be the easiest way to get through without anyone asking about my…past. First year of university I shared a dorm with Mike Stamford, the smoothest bloke in the world. He could pull girls anywhere without even trying. He had a new girl every night, just about. Hard to hide it when there was nobody in or out of my room.”

“He took you under his wing.”

“Thought he was dealing with some shy kid who’d never kissed a girl,” John admitted. “Which I hadn’t, at that point.” He swallowed. “I never told him why,” John whispered. A long pause, then he cleared his throat and continued in his doctor voice, “I wanted to fit in, to be able to talk to people. Mike taught me all his tricks about talking to women. As it turned out, I was good at it. It worked with men, too, though that wasn’t Mike’s area. I was good at the flirting, I could do that. After the flirting, though, there’s the kissing. First thing someone does when you kiss them, they slide their hands…”

“…over your back.” Sherlock finished for him.

John nodded. “I couldn’t stand it. The wounds had healed, of course, but I just couldn’t bear the touch. The last thing I wanted was pity, so I didn’t tell anybody.”

“They must have thought…what did they think?” Sherlock asked.

“Mike’s flat mate, the expert at getting pretty girls and handsome guys to talk to him? The guy who left every party with someone new?” John’s voice changed, a note of bitterness coming into it. “I just…changed. I found a way to be the nice, flirty guy who leaves parties with people, but doesn’t take his clothes off. The expert at giving, when it came to sex. There are a lot of things you can do without taking your clothes off, especially when you focus on your partner.” He shrugged again, failing miserably at nonchalant. “Nobody noticed, or if they did they must have just thought I was fucking someone else,” said John. “One night someone pointed out that I’d slept with half the College. It got exaggerated to half the world, which became three continents. Three Continents Watson.”

“Ah,” breathed Sherlock. He’d assumed it had something to do with John’s sexual conquests while on tour. While part of him was irritated at being so wrong about this man he’d professed to know so very well, he had to admire John’s ability to hide this integral part of himself. He’d carefully constructed a lie, hiding his inexperience behind a bold front that had fooled even Sherlock. Looking at him now, John seemed to be a different man. The confidence of the soldier, the quiet self-assurance, was gone. In its place was a fragility Sherlock had never associated with John. There was a sense that John was attempting to make his already compact body less visible, less of a target. It made Sherlock bristle, brought out protective instincts he hadn’t felt stir in a long time.

“The nickname followed me to officer training. Again, the assumption, a rumour from someone who knew someone. Less opportunity for proper dating or proper sex for that matter, so again I was the generous guy. Everyone assumed I was sleeping with everyone else, I suppose.”

Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t there communal showers in the Army?”

“Easy enough to turn your back. Everyone’s so busy not looking, or trying to hide their own cock. Just Three Continents Watson again, showing off.” The mocking tone was pulled right from John’s memory, Sherlock could tell. The flash of hurt in those blue eyes as they met Sherlock’s and turned away again confirmed it.

Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath. He looked carefully at John, noting the rounded shoulders, palms pressed between thighs, head ducked to hide his face.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, very quietly into the silence.

“What?” John replied. He frowned but didn’t look up.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated. “For sharing this with me.” He paused, not sure how to phrase his next question. “John…if you…I don’t know…” he paused, regrouping before blurting, “If you’d rather we didn’t...we don’t have to…do anything you’re not comfortable with.” Sherlock looked at John, hoping his message had been articulate enough to be understood.

“I’m not asexual, Sherlock.” John said. “I’m…I am attracted to you.” He sat quietly again, and Sherlock could almost feel him withdrawing into himself as he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t want to be like this anymore. I want…but I don’t know how.” John took a deep breath, and Sherlock watched as he raised his head, eyes meeting Sherlock’s with a mixture of determination and trepidation. “Can you…do you think we could…” He took another deep breath, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “Will you help me?”

The deferential tone, as though he expected rejection, tore at something in Sherlock. He rarely refused John anything, anything important, but that tone made him even more determined.

“Of course, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> John's dad physically abused him, so John withdrew and ultimately couldn't bring himself to sleep with anyone. At Uni, Stamford taught him the art of flirting, at which he excelled. John had plenty of sex-in-an-alley type experiences with men and women. His generosity earned him a reputation (Three Continents), which followed him from Uni to the Army. Nobody but Sherlock knows about his past. John asks Sherlock to help him overcome his reluctance to engage in physical contact.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock nodded, sitting back. His mind whirred, considering the options going forward. He steepled his fingers, grateful John had allowed him time to think. When a tentative plan had formed, Sherlock sat up, clearing his throat.

“I propose we consider this as two separate matters,” he began. “Given your previous sexual experience, I hypothesise it is not the sex itself you find difficult, but the potential for your partner to touch you in a way in which you are not comfortable, specifically with reference to your back and the associated explanation. As I am now aware of your past…” he stopped, the formal language exhausting even though it helped cover his discomfort. To his immense relief, John looked…amused? Not angry. That was the main thing, Sherlock thought with relief.

“John?” Sherlock asked. Reading John was always more difficult than other people. Given the revelation of earlier, Sherlock was less certain than ever of his knowledge of John. If John could talk, that would be far more reliable.

John was nodding slowly. “Yeah.” He was rubbing his hands together, which Sherlock recognised as the nervous mannerism that had replaced his left handed reflexive grip. “I…I just don’t want to take my shirt off. Or…” he swallowed hard. “I don’t want…” he stopped, and Sherlock resisted the urge to speak. He could see John struggling to express himself, the words difficult to find. “It’s control. I want to know you won’t touch my back, or take off my shirt.”

Sherlock nodded. “Okay.” He could understand that. It made a lot of sense, given that John wouldn’t have been able to tell previous partners what he wanted without explaining why. But that wouldn’t be an issue now. “Can I make a suggestion?” his heart started beating faster as John nodded hesitantly. “You could…be in charge.”

John blinked at him. “Pardon?”

Sherlock allowed himself to relax, to let his thrill at the idea show on his face, in the shifting of his hips. “If you were to direct me,” he swallowed without thinking, “you wouldn’t have to worry about losing control of what was happening.” He watched John consider the idea. With immense control, Sherlock reigned in his arousal. He wanted John to see his interest in the idea without putting pressure on him. This new consideration was quite complex, he thought; the fact it was John made it much easier. He’d always thought more about John than other people, this was merely an extension of that practice. Patience and consideration were not his natural milieu, but John…John made him want to make the effort.

And so he sat quietly, waiting for John to decide.

“That,” John cleared his throat, and Sherlock snapped his eyes from the ceiling, where he’d been reciting the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence, to John, “that could work.” Sherlock’s eyes roamed over John. The data flowed faster than he could process; it blurred together to form one glorious conclusion.

Wide pupils.

Hips tilted forward, knees spread.

Licking lips.

Breathing accelerated.

_Arousal._

John liked the idea.

Sherlock swallowed. “Okay, then.” He stood, knowing his arousal would be evident. John’s eyes swept down his body, lingering on the bulge in his trousers.

“What, now?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him, smirking a little. “It does seem like we’re both…ready.”

John stood up, and Sherlock saw the impressive press of his cock against the zipper of his trousers. When his eyes travelled upwards, he immediately saw the difference in stance. This was not John Watson, flatmate. It was not John Watson, medical doctor.

This was John Watson, Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Sherlock swallowed.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“John…” Sherlock said carefully. “Your ribs…”

“My ribs are my concern,” John replied. His tone was not harsh, but firm; it was Captain Watson’s voice, not to be ignored. Sherlock wondered if he should be calling John sir.

“Okay,” he said instead. “I’m clean, by the way.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “So am I,” he answered. They sat and looked at each other. Was it really as easy as saying it, Sherlock wondered. He’d leave that up to John, then.

Captain Watson seemed to be stuck, so Sherlock stood. “Would you be more comfortable in my bedroom or yours?”

John’s face went blank as he thought. It threw Sherlock – John had a Thinking Look and Associated Head Tilt, neither of which were present. Perhaps they were not Captain Watson’s mannerisms, then.

“Upstairs,” he said finally, turning without waiting for a response and semi-marching towards his bedroom. Sherlock followed without comment, his erection hampering his efforts to walk normally. John did not seem to have the same problem; his ribs had not caused so much as a flicker of pain to show since Sherlock had proposed their experiment. Sherlock stored that observation for later analysis. Right now, he was entering John’s bedroom.

John stood in the middle of the room at parade rest, watching Sherlock.

“What would you like me to do?” Sherlock asked, standing just inside the door. His heart was beating fast but he waited, breathing slowly. This was John’s space, now.

“Take off your clothes and sit on the bed.” John’s voice was not loud, yet it broached no arguments. Sherlock nodded, annoyed to find his hands shaking slightly as he slipped buttons from their buttonholes, his shirt gaping to reveal more of his chest as he progressed. His belt snapped as he tugged it free; the clatter of the buckle on the floor was loud, and John jumped; startled. Sherlock paused, waiting for John – was he alright? – but the Just Do What You’re Told Look pressed upon him. Suppressing both a grin and a shudder of arousal, Sherlock quickly complied, his trousers, socks and shoes making a messy pile where he stood. Before he could add his pants to the mix, John spoke.

“That’s enough. Onto the bed.” He hadn’t moved a muscle; even now, only his eyes followed Sherlock as he settled himself in the middle of the bed. Sherlock sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, trying to ignore the throb of his cock as John turned slowly to look at him. Was that…had John’s tongue just flicked out, moistening his lips? Sherlock couldn’t tell if it had been his imagination or not. He watched, hoping to see it again, searching for confirmation.

As Sherlock watched, John’s eyes travelled down his body, lingering in places. The look was slow, measured, and it occurred to Sherlock that John had never had the leisure to do this with anybody. Rushed grappling in dark alleyways or parties didn’t really allow for the kind of slow exploration it appeared John was planning. His cock jumped at the idea of John’s hands (and mouth, perhaps?) running over his skin. When John’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s the desire within took Sherlock by surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, feeling his brow twist in confusion. Was it him personally or the idea of any willing body laid out for him that sparked such a reaction? Before Sherlock could speak, John stepped forward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. One hand sank into Sherlock’s hair as his mouth covered Sherlock’s, the motion determined without being forceful **.** John matched Sherlock’s open mouth; there was no opportunity for chaste lips or enquiring presses of tongue. Sherlock felt himself exhale as John’s lips met his own. The shock wore off quickly, and his tongue moved to meet John’s. It was unlike anything Sherlock had experienced. There was no fighting for dominance, neither partner trying to subdue the other; rather John seemed intent on exploring him, encouraging his own exploration. Sherlock tried to match John, mindful that this was his space. That didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying it, though – the gentle stroke of John’s tongue against his own, the teasing pull back only to dive in again, teeth grazing his lower lip. Sherlock’s hands tensed, fingers pressing into his thighs; he wasn’t going to touch until John told him he could. Pressure on his hair indicated John has tightened his fist; more than anything happening in his mouth, it made Sherlock groan.

John pulled away at the sound, panting as he stared at Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock managed, unnerved by the sudden halt.

“You…” John swallowed. His hand was still tangled in Sherlock’s hair; their lips were still only centimetres apart. Sherlock waited. “You can touch me. I mean,” he hastened to add, “Not…not my back.” He looked at Sherlock, checking for refusal, a hint of defence in the glance.

“You mentioned…a belt.” Sherlock said carefully. He didn’t want to bring back more than was necessary, but John had taken him by surprise kissing him so suddenly. They needed some kind of conversation before anything else happened. “Is there anywhere else I should avoid?”

John’s eyes flickered. “No,” he said carefully. “Not that comes to mind.”

“If that changes,” Sherlock replied with equal care, “let me know.” Before John could kiss him again, Sherlock added, “John. I won’t touch your back, or try to do anything that would involve you turning your back to me (he saw John’s face heat as he considered what acts that might include) without your explicit permission.” His gaze was determined and he kept going through the awkwardness of this little speech. “It’s basic consent. We don’t ever have to talk about it again if you don’t want to, and you don’t have to explain why one thing’s okay but another’s not. If you need to leave, or stop, or anything, it’s fine. It’s all fine.” He wasn’t sure John would really believe him – the doctor’s scars were obviously more than physical – but if John had taught him anything, it was that people made assumptions unless intentions were made crystal clear.

“Alright,” John replied. “Thank you.” Sherlock thought he would shift close so they could kiss, but instead he spoke again. “I’m not used to asking,” said John. “I mean, I talk, but it is,” he swallowed hard, “it _was_ mainly to give directions.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Isn’t that what you’re doing here?” When John didn’t answer, Sherlock added, “I mean, it’s the same kind of thing, except I know where I need to avoid and why.” Further silence prompted him to whisper, “You’re in control, John. What do you want?” His fingers curled into his thighs, digging into the skin as he waited for John to answer.

“I want you to touch me,” whispered John.

Sherlock smiled. “I can do that.” He brought one hand up to John’s arm, carefully running it up to his shoulder, fingers moving upwards, making sure his pinky didn’t dip below the collar of the t-shirt. Just a little pressure and John’s lips were on Sherlock’s again. They explored, more slowly, and Sherlock became entranced by John’s taste and the feel of his mouth. As they kissed John pressed backwards until Sherlock was lying down.

“Touch me, Sherlock,” John’s voice was quiet but commanding. Sherlock grinned to himself, his face not visible to John, who was currently kissing his neck. The tentative conversation hadn’t shattered him, then; John was still in control, but uncomfortable enough to hide his face. Without speaking Sherlock drifted his hands lower, pressing the soft cotton against John’s skin. He found the uneven scar at his shoulder, fascinated by the shape, curious to see it but mindful of John’s request to stay partially clothed. His hands wandered downwards, finding John’s nipples, playing until John gasped, his head dropping as he arched with arousal. And through his t-shirt, Sherlock thought to himself. He continued to stroke the erect tissue, gently now, wondering how sore John’s ribs were, until John sat up, his weight across Sherlock’s thighs. He was still avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, fingertips grazing down the smooth chest. Sherlock couldn’t reach any more; he allowed his hands to rest on John’s thighs, rubbing a slow path up and down the golden fuzz. John’s eyes followed his fingers and Sherlock relaxed, trusting John, making sure his approval was written clearly in every sound and move. He could feel his cock pulsing but ignored it. This was about John. If John wanted to make it about Sherlock, he was all for that; but it was up to John. The acquiescence did not come naturally, but Sherlock was surprised at how comfortable it was to sit with. Or lie with, as it turned out.

Moving carefully, John shifted forward, settling his hips so the base of his erection sat beside Sherlock’s. The sensation – so close but doing nothing to relieve the urge for friction – made Sherlock moan, and allowed his eyes to close for a moment. When he opened them, John was leaning over him, one arm braced beside Sherlock’s head.

“Move,” he told Sherlock. Rolling his hips backwards, Sherlock felt his cock slide against John’s, sending shivers through his body. He reversed the action, bringing his entire length to slide along John, slow and agonisingly arousing. By the end of it – just one slow roll of his hips back and forth – Sherlock was panting. He was gratified to see John in the same position – breathing harder, pupils wide, cheeks flushed. Classical arousal, Sherlock’s brain supplied. He told it to shut up.

“Again,” John gasped, and Sherlock complied, not stopping this time. He moved slowly, trying to ignore the effect it was having on him, concentrating on John. The two of them were so close – and the sight of John was so arousing – that it was difficult; only the memory of the horrific state of John’s back stopped Sherlock from moving faster, seeking release for both of them. He wanted this to be the way John wanted it; John was in charge. His hands gripped John’s shoulders, pressing into the muscle much as he had earlier into his own thigh. They had a rhythm now, John matching Sherlock’s slow action with his own. It slipped sometimes, both their inexperience in this showing, but Sherlock was grateful it only prolonged it.

“Sherlock,” whispered John. He groaned, eyes closed now, one hand blindly searching until it tangled roughly in Sherlock’s hair. The tug sent a spike of arousal through Sherlock and he dug his fingers harder into John’s shoulders. He wanted John closer, wanted to feel skin slide across hot skin. He groaned, allowing his hands to skate down John’s front, one fingernail just happening to scrape over each nipple as he went. As John gasped Sherlock’s hands landed on his arse, pulling him in closer.

“Fuck!” John swore, groaning as he pushed harder against Sherlock. “Sherlock, I need…I need…”

“What?” Sherlock asked, not stopping.

“Pants off. Both of us. Now,” he growled, and Sherlock did not need to be told twice. For the greater good, he told his protesting cock, pausing the thrusting motion in favour of following John’s command. He tugged his own down first, hurling them…somewhere, before hooking thumbs into John’s pyjama trousers and pants in one, working the waistband over his cock before thrusting them as far down John’s legs as he could manage. John took over, kicking them off with his feet. He was still balanced over Sherlock, who used all his self-control not to pull John down on top of him.

“Lube, top drawer,” said John, still holding himself off Sherlock, his cock hanging obscenely between them. As Sherlock twisted to get to the drawer his hip dragged across John’s cock, drawing a groan from John and a moment of scrabbling from Sherlock as his fine motor skills were incapacitated. The possibility of more – so much more – of that gave him motivation to open the drawer and find the bottle. In the process John had clearly gathered himself. When Sherlock laid flat, the bottle in one hand, John’s gaze bore into him. Captain Watson was back on deck, Sherlock thought. The thrill in his heart was matched by the jump of his cock. God, how was John still holding himself up like that?

“Pour some lube into your palm and slick my cock,” said John, his words calm and precise. The control in his voice was a direct juxtaposition to his flushed face and hooded eyes; the contrast was electric. Sherlock nodded, thumbing the bottle open without taking his eyes off John. The t-shirt still drooped from John’s torso, obscuring Sherlock’s view; he smoothed his dry hand down first, knuckles grazing soft skin when he reached his target. John’s eyelids fluttered but he did not move a muscle; Sherlock wished he’d paid more attention to the feel of his abs on his way past. As it was, John’s face when Sherlock’s fist closed over him was a sight he would not soon forget. The urge to close his eyes was too much; Sherlock watched as his lips parted, mouth slackening at the sensation. His biceps trembled as he kept himself from collapsing on Sherlock.

Slowly, _slowly_ , Sherlock firmed his fist, the lube spreading over his skin and John’s, the only barrier between them. He spread his fingers, marvelling at the expressions rippling across John’s face. Such a reaction to such a small action. He watched as John’s breathing shallowed, stroking root to tip until his fist moved freely, around and over every inch of John.

“Now you,” John’s voice was steady, though he did not open his eyes until Sherlock’s hand had left his skin. When he heard the snick of the bottle, John opened his eyes. Sherlock waited for him to focus before lowering his hand to his own cock, allowing the breathy moan to escape as he looked into John’s eyes.

“What next?” Sherlock asked. His voice was deeper than usual and he hoped John could see how close he was, lying here, inches from John but without a single point of contact, stroking his own sinfully slick cock and staring into John’s eyes.

“I want your hands on my arse again.” John’s voice was strained now; Sherlock had watched astonishment tint his arousal as he realised how turned on Sherlock was. Happy to have an excuse to take his hand away from himself, Sherlock slid both hands around John’s hips, spreading them over his arse, feeling the muscles tense and flex as he held himself up.

“Pull me down,” said John, “onto you.”

Within a heartbeat, Sherlock had flexed his arms, raising his hips to meet John’s, pulling their bodies together. The sound which rose from the bed was raw and primal; it was both of them, the relief and agonising glory of their warm hot skin meeting so intimately. John sank into Sherlock, bearing his weight on elbows but dropping his face to Sherlock’s neck, chest pressing Sherlock into the mattress.

He should have been too heavy; the proximity should have been too much.

It was perfect.

John was groaning into his neck, the air surely humid and stale by now. Sherlock could feel the vibrations through his chest wall as John groaned, felt the flex of his magnificent arse as he pumped his hips in time with Sherlock, neither holding back now. It was fast and unrestrained. Sherlock’s hands gripped John, pushing him down to meet Sherlock’s cock as it rubbed over John’s erection, the balance between friction and smoothness only adding to the sensations. Sherlock felt John’s fingers creep into his hair; it must be as much John’s thing as it was his, he thought as they twisted tight, once more tearing a groan from him. Christ, if this is how they responded to each other after what was essentially a bit of frottage – naked frottage, but still – imagine…

Without warning, Sherlock came.

The image of John inside him, stretching his body, filling the literal and metaphorical space inside him with all his John-perfection was too much. It was a blur but Sherlock felt his neck muscle lock, hips lose all rhythm; he pressed into John, fingers digging hard into flesh as his body emptied itself of warm fluid between their bodies. The cataclysm had centred on his groin, sparks of light flying out to his fingers and toes, shot circuiting his brain and tearing rough cries from his throat.  

“Fuck…” John grunted into Sherlock’s neck. He’d paused as Sherlock came, only to frantically resume, chasing his own release for an agonising few seconds before he too spilled onto Sherlock’s stomach. It was only when he collapsed onto Sherlock that the detective realised how much weight John had been holding off him; he was actually quite heavy. Shifting sideways, Sherlock moved out from underneath, twisting to keep their bodies pressed together, mindful not to run his hands up John’s back. He flipped John carefully, lowering him onto the mattress before curling up at his side.

“Urgh, we’re…I’ll be back,” murmured Sherlock. John’s t-shirt had become caught up in the mess, and it was sticking to both of them. He quickly wet a flannel and cleaned himself up before returning to John. Surveying the damage, Sherlock found John a clean t-shirt.

“Water?” Sherlock asked. He knew the excuse to give John a chance to change in privacy was transparent, but John might not want to ask; this would give them both the opportunity to not mention it. Such a complex thing, consideration, Sherlock mused as he waited for John’s response.

“No,” replied John. His voice was slow and he had half a smile on his face. He’d cleaned up with the cloth and removed his soiled t-shirt, replacing it quickly and dropping the flannel and t-shirt over the edge of the bed. “C’mere, though.”

Sherlock crawled back into the bed, sitting next to John. As intense as that had been (for him, anyway), he wasn’t sure where they sat, sexually, relationship-wise.

“You okay?” John asked, looking up at him.

“I was wondering the same about you.” Sherlock replied. John considered the question for longer than he usually might. The Thinking Look and Associated Head Tilt were back; Sherlock was pleased to see them. He didn’t mind Captain Watson, but John was his favourite.

“Yes.” John answered finally. “I am. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied automatically. They sat in silence for a moment until Sherlock asked, “How did you find the experience?”

To Sherlock’s surprise – and John’s, judging from his expression – John blushed slightly. “I’ve never come with someone before.” To Sherlock’s frown he added, “I mean, it’s always been, them then me. Or the other way around. But never…”

“Together,” Sherlock supplied.

“Yeah,” John said, a little smile lifting the edge of his mouth. He seemed to sink back into his thoughts, so Sherlock drifted into his mind palace, wondering if he should wait until tonight to start sorting the disaster that was the Watson Wing. Data was everywhere, it would take hours to organise it. Might be better to wait until John retired for the evening, to give himself plenty of time.

As if to prove his point, John spoke, pulling him back into the real world. “You never answered my question.”

“No,” replied Sherlock. “I’m fine. Good.” He cleared his throat. “That was more than satisfactory.”

The Thinking Look and Associated Head Tilt were back. “Exactly how much experience do you have, Sherlock?”

The post-coital endorphins must be affecting his usually delicate social graces, Sherlock thought. Generally John would be reluctant to ask such a direct personal question. “Some,” he hedged. “Probably a lot.” When John gave him the Just Tell Me For God’s Sake Look, Sherlock admitted, “I have spent a lot of my life high, John.”

“True,” John conceded.

“Is that a problem?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” said John immediately. “You told me you’re clean. I trust you.”

“Thank you,” whispered Sherlock. It was rare for John to express what he had shown Sherlock so many times, and Sherlock was taken aback at how much it meant to hear the words.

“It was okay that I was…in charge?” John asked. He was staring at the ceiling trying hard to look nonchalant.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied. “More than okay.”

John turned his head to study Sherlock. “You liked it.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied. There was no use denying it. He looked down at John, who was processing this new piece of information. “I trust you too, John.” He didn’t remember the last time he told John. If it was as important to John as it had been to Sherlock, he wanted John to hear it too.

“Good,” John replied. He took a deep breath. “How much, exactly?”

“What do you have in mind?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his suddenly increasing heartrate from affecting his voice.

“Right now I want to sleep,” John admitted. “I didn’t sleep much last night. Nervous.” Sherlock nodded. “But later maybe we could try some other stuff. Together.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied. His cock twitched its agreement.

“It’s probably going to take me a while to get used to you knowing about my back. I mean,” John rushed, “I trust you. And obviously I know that you know. But I’ve been hiding this my whole life, you know? So I’ll probably still want to wear a t-shirt, and I’ll still want the bathroom door closed.” His voice was carefully neutral and to all but the most keen of observers – all but Sherlock, perhaps – it was calm. There was a thread there, a thread that told Sherlock how much this meant to John.

Without speaking, Sherlock lowered himself down to curl into John’s uninjured side, resting quietly for a few moments until John’s tense muscles started to relax. “Whatever you need is fine,” he said. He could feel John shifting, and a sudden understanding came to him. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at John until his gaze was returned.

“This is because I ignore stuff, isn’t it.” Sherlock said.

“Or delete it.” John replied.

Sherlock frowned. “That’s the unimportant details, John.”

“Like expiration dates on milk. Or safety precautions with acids. Permission to use my laptop, social niceties, solar system…”

“None of that is important, John,” Sherlock explained. When John’s look of scepticism did not fade, Sherlock ducked into his mind palace for a moment, then started to recite a hastily assembled list. “Your birthday is July 7th. Preference for a small gathering, chocolate cake and a present demonstrating effort rather than cost. I always update your security when I use your laptop and never open the file denoted NO SHERLOCK I’M SERIOUS. I never drink milk, therefore never see the expiry dates. You need approximately two hours more sleep on nights after a nightmare; I never play on those nights. I have ensured that your clinic is amply compensated for your time off, thus securing your job even with the erratic hours and frequent absences because it is important for you to contribute to society as a whole and our household in particular.”

“You remember things about me?” John asked, the astonishment plain in his voice.

“I remember things about you,” Sherlock echoed, “because you are important.” He held John’s gaze fiercely. “I will not forget this, John. I will not ignore it, or delete it.”

“You run around corners when I tell you to stay,” John whispered.

“I trust you to keep me safe,” Sherlock replied. “Will you trust me, too?”

Eight long, slow breaths, in and out. John looked at Sherlock, studied the earnest expression, the honesty and sincerity he hoped was plain to see.

“Okay,” John breathed. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi every one, thank you for reading this story. I was interested to see if I could successfully flip the Virgin!Sherlock trope, and I'm fairly happy with how it's turned out. I'm considering this story done for the time being - there's a lot more I could explore but my focus is a little scattered at the moment so I'm going to let the boys catch their breath for a while before we delve into any more angst/ask John to push his boundaries again. I appreciate every single one of you, thank you again. <3


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